


Those days are all gone now, but one thing is true, (when I look and I find, I still love you).

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [44]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Gigolas Week, Grey Havens, Hair Braiding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli is old. Legolas is an elf who has the sea-longing.</p><p>written for gigolas week, but its actually two days in two chapters - and in the wrong order. sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from the Queen song 'These are the days of our Lives'.

Sod off. Am tired. Want to sleep.

Don’t say it, Gimli. Not kind.

Always want to sleep now.

Am getting too old.

Poor elf.

Poor daft sodding elf.

Stuck with me. All I want to do these days is sleep.

Don’t suppose he ever thought about this, I know I didn’t. Couldn’t imagine getting old then. I suppose we thought we would die in battle. Or – just stay the same.

He has.

Poor elf.

He’s stopped talking of going over the sea. I know he thinks I won’t be able to now.

Poor bloody elf.

Perhaps when I’m dead someone else will take him. Caradhil. One of those bloody singing elves. 

Sorry, love.

Too old now.

Too old for anything. Sometimes I look at him, and he looks the same he did the first day I met him. And all the old longing comes back. But – I can’t. Not now. Too old.

Poor elf.

Better perhaps if I hadn’t taught him. Better if this – this that is left – his combing, braiding – better if that was all he ever knew.

He’s fussing over my hair now, hands in it, combing, singing away. Still feels nice. 

In a bit, he’ll look at me, with those eyes, and I’ll take his comb, try my best to give him what he wants.

It’s all that’s left now.

Poor bloody elf.

Never meant to hurt him. 

Look at him, his hands busy in my beard, braiding, pattern forming without him even needing to think. Clever long fingers, working away, putting in the beads made from his jewels so long ago. Been a long while – a long while for me.

No time at all for him.

A blink of an eye in the lifetime of an elf.

He’s finished. He lays his head against my chest, his hands on my shoulders, kneeling between my legs. And I think once, once I would have been pushing him down, desperate for his mouth. 

Now, now I just hold him. Stroke his pretty hair. Still wearing the beads I gave him when we made our vows. Beads I made the year I came of age.

I wonder how long they’ll last him when I’m dead.

Wonder if he’ll have to have different braids.

Never asked. Never thought about it.

Don’t like to now. It’d upset him.

Poor bloody elf.

“I love you.” I say.

“I love you,” he answers, and from somewhere he pulls out his bloody comb. First thing I made for him. Wonder how long that’ll outlast me. “Comb me,” he says, “please Gimli-nin, comb me, braid me. I – I would have your hands in my hair.”

Doesn’t look as though he needs it. 

Don’t think that’s the point though.

I take his comb in these old wrinkled hands, and watch myself do my rather shaky best.

“I’ve always loved your hair,” I say.

He looks down at the floor, and I see his pretty ears are flushed, oh poor elf, I think as I stroke them, poor elf. This used to be something I would rush through, eager for the main event – now it’s all that’s left.

“Do you still?” he asks, and – there is actually a note of fear in his voice.

“Of course,” I say, “daft sodding elf. I love all of you. You are as perfect as the day I met you.”

He leans into my hands, and I wait, I know he is finding courage to say something.

“I’m sorry. I – I must be so dull to you. Never changing. I – I would age with you if I could. You – you are so varied. Always there is something new. I love you so.”

“Daft sodding elf,” but I cannot say more, my voice is choked with tears. I hold him and he looks up at me,

“Your daft sodding elf,” he whispers, and I hear the same tears in his voice.

“Always,” I say.

“Always,” he answers. He swallows, then, “melethron-nin, I – I know we have not much longer now. I – I meant what I said. I will follow you. Wait for me. I – I do not know how long it will take me to find you, but I will find you. Beyond death. I will find you. I have your name.”

“Aye,” I say, “I will wait. I told you I would wait until the end of time comes and the world is renewed if I must.”

He leans into me again, and runs one hand through my beard, one through my hair, feeling the braids. I stroke over his head, feeling his braids, wondering how many more times I will manage to put them in for him.

Poor bloody elf.


	2. Chapter 2

“Elessar is dead,” I say to him, and he looks at me with that same look he always has when I am stating the obvious. “I mean, we – we have no reason to stay here now.”

“In Minas Tirith – no,” he sighs, and manages to find the energy to sound as he always did, “oh good, we can get back on that bloody horse.”

I laugh, as I know he wants me to, I do not let myself dwell on how different it is now. Now, he must ride in front of me, that I can hold him when he sleeps – and I think it will not be long before he cannot even do that. 

“Yes, but – that is not what I meant. Gimli-nin, we – we always said – you said – you would come West with me when Elessar died. Please?”

He looks down, and takes my hand in both of his, stroking it, and I fear his words – he must be going to say something I will not like. I know him. I should. It has been a hundred and nineteen years we have been vowed. A hundred and twenty that I have loved him, watched him. 

He may think that is nothing to an elf – but it is not. Not when it is the most golden hundred and twenty years I have had. All the others are as nothing.

“Elf, I cannot. You know – you must know – I cannot travel to the havens now. Elessar lived so long. I – I should have said years ago. But –“ he is still looking at my hand, “I would not have you stay and watch me crumble. Do not stay and watch the world change again. Go now. Caradhil will take you. I spoke to him of this.”

I clutch at him, I do not feel anger at his plotting, I may later, but now I feel only fear, only cold fear,  
“You – you would send me away? Why? What have I done?”

He will not meet my eyes,  
“I would have you go West as you have long wished. I – I am nothing to stay for now. I am old. Too old. Go with Caradhil, be an elf among elves again.”

Now I feel anger,  
“I do not want to be an elf among bloody elves, I have not wanted that for so long. I do not want to be with sodding Caradhil. I am not vowed to Caradhil. In case you had not noticed, you bloody fool, I am vowed to you, and I love you, you stupid, blind, dwarf. I would still rather stay here with you than go without you. Unless,” fear seizes me again, “unless it is you that does not want me? You that finds you wish to be a – a fucking dwarf among dwarves again?”

And I wonder what I will do for the rest of eternity if that is so.

But he laughs, and pulls me to him,  
“Oh my elf. You have spent too long with me. Once that pretty speech would have been poetic, tearful and loving. Now – now you swear and are angry.”

I suppose he is right. Even elves change. He stops laughing and speaks again,

“But that is part of it – I am no longer a fucking dwarf. I am too old. I am no use to you. I – I would have you free to – to love again.” He swallows, and I can see what this is costing him to say, but my voice has gone, I am trying so hard not to cry that I cannot speak, and he continues, “You – I would not have you spend your years alone. Or merely combing. I – it will not change what we had. Please. Go.”

But before he can go any further, I manage to break in,

“No, I will not hear this. I will not hear you say this. Just – just listen. I – I am no fool, melethron-nin. I know you cannot go to the havens. I – have you never looked at a map? We are in Minas Tirith, Ithilien is not far – I – I know you said your farewells to your caves in case you came not back. I – my elves – we have begun work on a ship. It – it will be small, but – but we can follow the Anduin to the sea. I – I thought that would be better for you?”

He is silent and I think perhaps he is seeing sense. Then I realise he is bracing himself to start again, so I speak before he can,

“And – and my love – what is this talk of no use? Of loving again? Of years alone? I – I thought we had settled this years ago. I am an elf. I cannot love again. And if I could, I would not. You are my One. I will not have years alone. The – the day I – I lay you to rest I will lie beside you and follow you. I am an elf. I have that choice. I do not have to fade slowly from grief, I can choose to follow you. Ask Caradhil, since you seem suddenly so keen on him, he will tell you that after any battle we fought together in the long years before I knew you, there were those who chose to follow their lost ones.” I see he begins to understand, “I will find you. I have your name. You hold my fea in your heart. I will find you. How many times must I say this? Trust me, my love.”

He nods, slowly, and I see that it is now he who cannot speak, who gathers me into his arms, and holds me as I kneel, pressed against him, feeling his strength, his bulk, the warmth of him, the roughness of his skin, the silk of his beard.

“So,” I say, “you will come – not to the havens, but to my ship, and then West? Just you and I.”

“Aye,” he says, “when you look at me with those eyes, you know I will do as you ask. When have I ever not?”

And I cannot recall a single time.

 

 

So now we are on this ship, journeying together again, the red flag with the sickle moon of Ithilien and the hammer of Aglarond flying over us. He is no keener than he was the first time we were in an elven boat, but – one advantage of age – he sleeps so much he does not have to suffer all this way. 

I do not mind. I have him all to myself again. No dwarves asking for his plans, his thoughts, no work or craft for him to be busy with, or wishing to be busy with, no elves wanting me to pretend to care about whatever Caradhil is doing, no proud parents wanting their lords to admire their offspring.

No sticky little dwarrowlings, no sticky little elflings. I am surprised to find how much I miss that. I liked their little hands in my hair, their eyes watching, their questions. I liked singing them to sleep. I liked playing with them. I liked watching him answer their questions. I liked – I liked the way there was so little difference between the elflings and the dwarrowlings. 

I liked seeing them laugh. Knowing no child in either Ithilien or Aglarond was left alone, sad, uncombed, uncuddled.

No dwarrowling ever will be.

I trust Caradhil to ensure no elfling in Ithilien will be. 

After all, when he was near, no elfling in Mirkwood was.

My beloved’s voice breaks into my thoughts,  
“What are you looking so sad over, elf?”

I answer, truthfully,  
“The children, your race and mine, I – I shall miss them.”

He sighs,  
“It was you who wanted this voyage. This old dwarf was quite content where he was,” and I feel guilty. I should not have held him to a promise made so long ago, when he did not know how age would feel, “No, love, I am fine. You needed this. I – I suppose you will be pleased to meet your mother at last.”

I look at him, surprised,  
“Do you know, I had not even thought of that. I – I doubt I will be looking for her,” I smile ruefully, “after all, one so dear to Ada is unlikely to be overwhelmed with joy when she finds I have become the first elf to bring a dwarf to Valinor.”

He looks puzzled,  
“Your Ada was – is – not so bad. But – if not to see your mother – what is the point of this voyage?”

I had not realised he thought this. 

“Trees,” I say, as though it is obvious, then, as I see the anger start to bloom on his dear face, “no, only partly. Just – just to cross the sea, to see those lands, to walk those hills. I do not know, meleth, just – I need to go. I am grateful to you. I could not go without you. You – you make sense of everything.”  
Maybe to buy you a few more years, I think, but I do not say it.

He snorts, embarrassed by my elvish emotion as ever, “someone has to make sense of you, daft sodding elf,” then hesitates, and says, looking away out to sea, “you do know I will be no younger there? I – I will not be what I once was to you. Ever again. However much I love you, and I do, I cannot.........”

I take his hand,  
“I know. It matters not. I love you. You.” I pause, and after all these years, I am still searching for words, still burning at my ear-tips, “I – Gimli-nin, have you never noticed most elves have their children within fifty, maybe a hundred years? However long the marriage. I – I have had so many years of – of loving with you.”I stop again, I can see he is not convinced, “I – has it occurred to you that without you, I would never have – have loved?”

He looks at me,  
“No. That has not occurred to me. Because I am not the blind dwarf you think I am. Without me, there would have been someone.”

I do not want to ask what he means, who he means, I care not,

“An elf. And – it would have been combing. And no more. I would not have married, I would have combed for a season with one group or another, as I did all the days of my life before you. I would not even have vowed to one. How could I have, when you are the other half of me?” and looking into his eyes, I ask, “would you have?”

He pulls me to him,  
“Daft sodding elf, of course not. I suppose you are right. You know your people best.”

I lean against him, feeling his arms round me, his presence giving me the security I crave, and I find I care not whether we reach land. Or whether we drift like this, together, for the rest of time. 

I have all I need here in this boat. 

My dwarf sings with me.


End file.
